


Oh, my Hope!

by ryukoishida



Series: Attack the Crowd [2]
Category: Arslan Senki | Heroic Legend of Arslan
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Cheerleader AU, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-01
Updated: 2016-10-01
Packaged: 2018-08-18 22:26:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8178380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryukoishida/pseuds/ryukoishida
Summary: Arslan doesn’t like celebrating his birthday, so when Elam finds out the next day, he decides that he must do something to make up for it





	

**Author's Note:**

> The lovely Moccino continues to be a peach and drew this cute moment from the fic: http://moccino.tumblr.com/post/151145434025/i-really-really-liked-this-scene-%CF%89

“Good morning, Elam.”

 

The door shuts behind him with a squeak that ricochets brashly within the empty gymnasium.

 

“Good morning,” Elam murmurs as he reaches forward easily to touch the tips of his shoes; the muscles along his back stretch and pull in a steady, pleasant tension. He doesn’t lift his head up in greeting, just maintains his position on the exercise mat.

 

They fall into companionable silence that’s only occasionally broken by the melodic chirping of the birds perched on the trees that line the sidewalk running parallel to the building outside. As the heat of summer and lingering energy of the school festival fade, and the footsteps of autumn steadily approach the campus of Pars University, the leaves have begun to change colours: jade green to a vibrant palette of golden yellows and fiery reds.

 

The school festival performance had been a success; their routine was a little rough around the edges and it was far from perfect, but Farangis had assured the team with a rare but genuine smile that they’d achieved what cheerleaders were supposed to: they stirred up the atmosphere amongst the spectators and brought entertainment and merriment to them. Later on that day, Gieve, second-year music major and captain of the cheerleading squad, received phone calls and text messages inquiring about joining the team.

 

In the end, they accepted four new members.

 

Tus is a quiet third-year literature student with a sturdy built and calm manner who’s the type to work hard without bringing attention to himself. He’s well-liked by everyone within just a few minutes of getting to know him.

 

Zaravant, on the other hand, is a very passionate second-year architecture major who seems to constantly clash heads with another new recruit. Even Gieve has a difficult time pulling those two apart from getting actual brawls at times, and only when Narsus steps in with his immaculately menacing grin does Zaravant back off with a huff.

 

Jimsa, an exchange student from Turania University across the border who’s majoring in geography, is the aforementioned new recruit. Though he possesses excellent tumbling skills and works well in groups that do not contain one Zaravant, his attitude outside of group practice can use some improvement. Arslan defends him by saying that the language barrier must make it difficult for Jimsa to convey his intent, while Zaravant sniffs indignantly and mumbles that some people are just unpleasant in general.

 

Lastly, there’s Merlane, a second-year archeology major sporting a head of bright red hair and cold, indifferent claret eyes. It was soon found out that the only reason he decided to join the cheerleading squad was due to his younger sister’s “persuasion”. It’s more like blackmail, Merlane admits begrudgingly to a curious Arslan, who is the only one brave enough to approach the young man who never seems to crack a smile or reveal any emotions at all. It reminds Gieve of a certain ex-drill-captain from his first year and he gladly lets Arslan, who has the ability and charm unbeknownst to himself to befriend anyone if he tries hard enough, handle the silent and brooding man.

 

Out of the eleven members in the squad, the two youngest ones are almost always the first to arrive for the morning training session.   

 

“You’re always here so early for practice,” Arslan comments, his tone a mixture of admiration and interest.

 

Elam swallows. If only the young master of Ecbatana Trading Co. knows of the real reason of why the brunet is willing to drag himself out of bed before the sun is even up every damn morning ever since he’s joined the university’s all men’s cheerleading club.

 

It’s impossible; Elam will never tell.

 

He sits up with his legs stretched wide and as far apart as possible, and lowers his torso to the floor, the tip of his nose touching the surface of the mat and the overwhelming stench of ancient plastic making Elam’s head swim.

 

“Not really,” his answer is muffled.

 

The next pause is more unnatural – the air in the room becoming more and more tense and stifling – as if they’re each waiting for the other to say something more, and Elam considers opening his mouth to maybe start some small talk but realizes that he has no idea how to go about it without seeming too awkward.

 

“Hey, Elam.”

 

“What is it?” Elam’s head remains lowered to the ground, his arms stretched out straight with his palms firmly pressed to the mat, but from his peripheral vision, he can see Arslan making his way over and stopping just before him.

 

“Did I… perhaps do something to make you dislike me?” There’s a sense of timidity in his soft voice, but he pushes on regardless, fingers gathering into fists and he can’t even register the pain of his fingernails digging into the flesh of his palms.

 

“I…” Elam’s voice tremors just a degree, and then he clears his throat to continue in a much steadier tone, “Why would you assume so?”

 

He counts to ten in his head and when Arslan still hasn’t replied, Elam breathes out a small sigh and pulls himself up to shake out the tautness in his limbs.

 

When Elam finally looks up, he sees his teammate, usually mild-mannered and always with a quiet but cheerful demeanor to those midnight blue eyes and gentle smiles, standing there just a few paces away, his slight but agile frame wind up in tension and his head lowered as if he’d done something wrong so that his long forelocks fall into his eyes like a thin veil that blocks out other people’s prying gaze.

 

“Arslan, what makes you think I dislike you?” Elam repeats his question, this time with a softer tenor, the ice that are usually weaved within his voice melted a little.

 

“Well, even after you joined the cheerleading club, we still rarely talk in class or during practice, and so I thought that maybe…” Arslan’s ramble comes to an abrupt pause, his fingers restlessly playing with a loose thread of his sweater, half a size too big on him, and he lifts his head so that their gazes finally meet, “…maybe I’ve done something wrong, and if that’s the case, I apologize.”

 

‘He’s so unfair,’ is the first thought Elam has. ‘So unfair.’

 

“You’re an idiot,” Elam says instead, and his cheeks heat up as he continues, jade green eyes unable to tear away from Arslan’s, “Stop overthinking everything. I don’t dislike you. How would anyone dislike you when they’ve come to know you?” ‘As if that can ever be a possibility.’ “You’re kind-hearted and you work hard when you know where your weaknesses lie, and you’re nice. Too nice – sometimes – to a point where people would take advantage of you and what’s so frustrating is that you don’t even seem to mind.”

 

“Does that mean that we can be friends?” Arslan interrupts him with a hesitant smile, and Elam is glad because right now he wants nothing more than to dig a hole on the spot and hide until the blush on his face stops trying to burn him alive in utter embarrassment.

 

“We already are,” Elam reminds him with an exasperated sigh, though his lips are curving up into a tiny smile as he gently smacks the slightly shorter man over the head, the gesture more like a pat than anything that would cause Arslan real harm.

 

The brunet forces himself to take a step back, retrieving his hand back to his side, before the act can be considered more than a friendly one.

 

“Your hair’s a mess,” Elam says, frowning when he observes Arslan’s silver locks curling in funny turfs where he hasn’t gathered and tied up into a ponytail.

 

It’s kind of adorable, Elam thinks to himself, the warmth that has started to fade mercifully returning with a vengeance at the tempting thought, like he’s just woken up and has hastily put his hair in some resemblance of order. He’s not thinking about what Arslan looks like when he’s still half-asleep in bed, one pale, naked shoulder revealed from the too-big sleep shirt that has slipped down while he twists and turns between the sheets during the night. He’s really, really not thinking about that.

 

“I was in a hurry this morning,” Arslan scratches the back of his neck with a sheepish grin.  

 

“Come on,” Elam sighs, and without thinking too much of what his action may imply – it’s too early to be overthinking such things, and Elam figures that he may as well start acting like the friend Arslan expects him to be, just so that Arslan would stop worrying and misunderstanding – he pulls the other man along to one of the benches near the entrance of the gym, his fingers wrapped lightly around Arslan’s slender wrist. “Sit.”

 

Arslan obeys without protest.

 

When Elam has located the required items, he straddles the bench behind Arslan’s figure and begins to fix his hair into a tidier ponytail. Once that’s done, he asks Arslan to turn around so that they’re sitting face-to-face; Elam tries not to let their close proximity affect him, but it’s difficult when Arslan is looking at him with such trusting eyes and a lovely, disarming smile.

 

With two bobby-pins balanced between his lips, Elam sweeps Arslan’s forelocks off his forehead and carefully pins the strands so that they will stay in place.

 

“There.”

 

Elam scoots back a few inches to give Arslan some personal space.

 

Arslan thanks him with another sweet smile.

 

Elam turns his head to the side, cheeks flaring up in warmth, but the brightness in the other man’s eyes doesn’t dim, and that’s when something catches Elam’s attention.

 

“Are those new?” He’s looking slightly to Arslan’s left.

 

“Hmm?”

 

“The earrings,” Elam clarifies. “They… they look good on you.” Usually, Arslan wears a pair of silver studs just a few shades darker than his hair that compliments his simple and elegant fashion; today, however, two dainty, black stainless steel hoops adorn his earlobes.

 

“Ah, thank you. They’re a birthday gift from Daryun,” Arslan unconsciously touches his left ear, tinged pink from Elam’s unexpected compliment, with his thumb and index finger.

 

“Your birthday? When was that?”

 

“Yesterday…”

 

“But you didn’t mention anything.”

 

“I don’t really like celebrating my birthday, so not a lot of people know,” Arslan tells him, looking away and biting his lower lip, but he doesn’t elaborate and Elam thinks now is probably not the best time for him to ask. From the way Arslan holds himself, arms wrapped tightly around his torso in a defensive pose and gaze averted, the reason must have been an unpleasant one.

 

“May I do something for you – for your birthday?”

 

“Y-you don’t have to go through such trouble,” Arslan stammers, stance loosening gradually as he looks up at Elam with surprised blue eyes.

 

“It’s no trouble,” Elam reaches a hand towards Arslan, and the other man flinches, eyes squeezed close as if he’s expecting a blow. Elam pauses only so slightly before he places his hand gently atop Arslan’s head and he leans down, their foreheads touching. “That’s what friends do for each other, isn’t it?”   

 

“Okay,” Arslan murmurs, breaths coming out short and shallow at their proximity. If he can shift his head just a little bit…

 

“Oi, Jimsa, you going in or what?”

 

“Stop shoving me, Zaravant!”

  
The double doors of the gymnasium scream and two men stumble in, their loud squabble already echoing too raucously within the walls.

 

When they finally take notice of the two youngest members of the squad, Elam and Arslan are standing a few paces apart, their bodies unnaturally stiff as they wave at the upperclassmen with matching awkward smiles.

 

Jimsa looks almost uncomfortable as he greets them with a hurried “good morning” and quickly goes to his corner to get ready for practice.

 

“Oh, Elam and Arslan, good morning! You two sure are early birds,” Zaravant greets the two younger members with a cheerful grin before he follows Jimsa’s tracks.

 

“What were you standing at the entrance for?” Zaravant wants to know as he shrugs off his sweater and stuffs it into his duffle bag.

 

“There are just some things one shouldn’t intrude upon, you know?” Jimsa glances over at Zaravant, and then he looks pointedly at Arslan and Elam, who have started to help each other stretch on the mat.

 

“What?” Zaravant looks utterly lost, and Jimsa doesn’t know why he even bothers sometimes.

 

Jimsa sighs. “Never mind.” 


End file.
